


Homing Beacon

by MistressPandora



Series: Tartan Terror Chronicles [2]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Dragons, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Monster of the Week, Not exactly Fuck or Die, but kinda fuck or die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: Dragonsweren'textinct, after all. Luckily, the Winchesters receive some help from their old ally, Jamie Fraser, and his British friends. Unfortunately, the dragon is drawn to one of them in particular, eliminating any advantage they may have otherwise had.
Relationships: Tom Byrd/Lord John Grey
Series: Tartan Terror Chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687324
Comments: 27
Kudos: 29
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Outlander Bingo Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nara_stories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nara_stories/gifts).



> Nara dropped this little plot bunny and I adopted it... "You're a virgin we better remedy that before you're sacrificed" trope with Tom/John. Well, my friend... here you go.

It should not have been able to get the drop on them so easily, Dean Winchester thought. He and his brother had been _careful_. For once. Yet here they were, backs pressed against the grimy wall of some abandoned warehouse—because that’s just their freaking lives—waiting for the monster to come around the corner and eat their faces. 

Sam’s chest heaved from the run and the fight, blood drying under his nose from where the thing had backhanded him across the room. He gripped his demon knife in one hand, a .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol in the other. Neither of which was going to do them a damn bit of good, but it sure as hell beat going down without a fight. “Definitely a dragon,” he said. “Which means we’re screwed.”

Of course they were screwed, but Dean wasn’t going to admit that to his little brother. Maybe if they had C4 in the trunk of the Impala, they’d be able to get out of the building and then bring it down on the dragon. But they didn’t, so there was no use wishing for it. Besides, his angel blade had barely nicked the thing. “Yeah, I really thought we ganked the last one. Guess not.” Dean risked a glance around the corner and caught a glimpse of a dark green, scaly wing tip, with a claw the size of Sammy’s dagger. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, pressing himself flat against the wall again. “We can’t stay here, we gotta move.”

As if to make Dean’s very excellent point, there was a screech and a blast of fire from around the corner. “Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed and they took off running in the opposite direction. 

The dragon howled again, belching fire down the corridor behind them, its huge claws scraping over the concrete floor as it pursued them. The last dragon they’d faced hadn’t bothered to shift into its true form. This one was quite the asshole, apparently. 

“Winchester, your left,” shouted a man’s voice from his left, deep and thickly accented with rolled Rs and Scottishness. Dean grabbed Sammy’s arm and they peeled off to the left, not at all surprised to see the impressive figure of Jamie Fraser waiting for them. He wore a totally conspicuous red and green kilt and black long-sleeved henley, his basket-hilted broadsword in his hand, casually at the ready.

“Dragon!” Dean shouted, stupidly, not slowing as they charged toward Jamie, freaking Smaug literally hot on their heels. 

“Aye, so ‘tis,” Fraser answered. “We’ll cover yer exit, come on.”

“We?”

“Oy!” came another shout, this time from their right. “Over here, you ugly bastard.”

“Dinna look, just run,” Jamie ordered, falling into step alongside them as they raced for the door. “Now, John!”

Dean’s shoulder collided with the door, half expecting it to splatter against a locked barrier. But it was propped ajar, and Dean would have fallen ass-over if Sammy hadn’t closed his big paw around his arm and hauled him upright.

The explosion knocked into them, forcing the air out of Dean’s lungs, flames hot on his back. Without thinking, Dean pivoted and plowed into his brother, driving them both to the asphalt with a bone-rattling impact, shielding their heads from shrapnel. Dean looked up at the building, now thoroughly ablaze with both fire and horrific, unnatural shrieking. He turned his attention to Sammy as they climbed back to their feet. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, shoving his wild hair out of his eyes and staring at the burning building. “What’d you hit it with?” he called to Jamie and the man next to him. They were both silhouetted against the fire and Dean couldn’t tell if he recognized the other guy with the bright flames obscuring his vision.

“Rocket propelled grenade,” said the second man in a calmly clipped, British accent.

His accent made Dean bristle, instantly suspicious. They’d pretty well driven the British Men of Letters out of the States, but if this guy was one, then he and Sammy were in deeper than they thought. But still… “An RPG? Dude.” Dean flashed a broad grin.

“Yes, quite,” replied the Brit. “It’ll annoy the creature but by the sounds of it, he’s far from dispatched. We should go.”

“Aye,” Jamie agreed, hustling toward an enormous grey pickup truck—the same truck he’d been driving when they first met him some six or seven years ago. It had a few new dents in the doors, and the big chrome toolbox had some new warding, the gun rack was well stocked, but it was definitely the same penis-mobile. There was a third man in the front seat of the truck, with a slender, boyish frame and wild hair. The kid shoved the driver side door open and scooted over to the middle seat and brought the big truck to life with the key as Jamie and the British guy climbed in. “Where are ye staying?” 

Dean fished his keys out of his pocket and made for the Impala, parked a few feet away from the truck. “Lebanon. About an hour or two south of here. We can regroup there, we have room.”

Jamie nodded. “We’ll follow ye then.”

* * *

Tom Byrd had a terrible feeling about the two men they were following. He knew of the Winchesters, from before. Even in London, they had a reputation as being ruthless and absolutely fatal to monsters and demons and… whatever else had the misfortune to cross their path. But Mr. Fraser had said they could be trusted, and John trusted Mr. Fraser, and Tom trusted John. But John was still tense beside him on the bench seat of Mr. Fraser’s pickup. They barely touched despite being crowded into the vehicle, but Tom thought that John felt coiled tight like a spring, or a snake waiting to strike. Tom could relate. If the Winchesters figured out what he was…

Tom tried to suppress a shudder and failed, the muscles of his neck and back and arms twitching until he had to shake them out. John gave his hand a reassuring pat as Mr. Fraser parked his truck behind the Winchesters’ old muscle car. Tom hadn’t even seen the entrance to the garage until they’d pulled into it. It was a positively cavernous structure, filled with gleaming cars and motorcycles, all beautifully maintained, all at least sixty years old. The eeriness of that realization sent another shiver down Tom’s spine. Wherever they were, whatever this place was, it had apparently been frozen in time. Weird. Bizarre. Unsettling. Tom swallowed hard and slid out of the pick-up behind John, sticking close to him.

Mr. Fraser greeted the Winchesters with hand shakes and a warm smile flashed at the shorter of the two. Tom suppressed a snort at the thought. Even the “shorter” Winchester towered over Tom and John. And they were both built like Mr. Fraser—broad shouldered and powered head-to-toe by strong muscles. Gracious, they wouldn’t need any special weapons to kill him, Tom thought, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans to stop them shaking.

“My friend John Grey,” Mr. Fraser was saying, and John nodded smartly, shaking the Winchesters’ hands with less easy cordiality than Mr. Fraser had. “And his friend, Tom Byrd.” 

Tom’s heart stopped. God, what if they knew his name? What if they wanted to shake his hand too and they could tell he was different? Luckily, he was far enough away, behind John and Mr. Fraser, that they accepted his wordless nod of acknowledgement. He let out the breath he’d been holding, relieved that he didn’t have to get any closer to the most fearsome hunters to ever live. For now.

Mr. Fraser went on: “Both are from London. Though John has been in America on a semi-permanent basis almost as long as I have.”

The taller brother—Sam, he’d introduced himself—gave John and Tom a long, skeptical look. Dean eyed them with open suspicion. “You British Men of Letters?” Dean asked.

John blinked at them, then shook his head with a chuckle. “Those pretentious arseholes? They wish. No, I’d rather hunt monsters the old fashioned way, thank you. Besides.” He gave Dean a look of hard challenge. “The British Men of Letters actively turn away from any actions that one might consider honorable.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. The Winchesters and John staring each other down so hard, Tom thought one of them would burst into flames. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, heart thundering in his ears.

At last, Dean nodded, lips pursed. “Alright then,” he said, satisfied. “Come on, I need a beer.” He turned and headed for a door, and Tom exhaled with relief. At least they also hated the British Men of Letters, the reason Tom had fled to America. That might be a good sign. But still, Tom couldn’t help but wonder how many of his kind the Winchesters had killed over the years. It was probably a hundred at least. He'd likely leapt from the Men of Letters’ frying pan directly into the Winchesters’ fire.

They followed the brothers into a room with a huge table, made of an illuminated map that hadn’t been updated since shortly after World War II. At Sam’s invitation they sank into the ancient wooden chairs, Tom situating himself between John and Mr. Fraser. They sat in awkward silence until Dean returned with a six-pack of beer in each hand, passing cold bottles to each of them before taking the empty chair at the head of the table, across from Mr. Fraser. 

The bottles emitted a staccato of _hiss_ and _clink_ as they unscrewed the caps and dropped them on the table. Tom took a long pull from his bottle, wrote the taste off as one of those unfortunate pale American lagers, and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible.

Dean didn’t speak until he’d swallowed a big mouthful of his beer and sighed, leaning back casually in his chair. He carried himself a lot like Mr. Fraser did, Tom thought. Large, powerful, and cat-like. Like an apex predator who’s entirely confident he’s the most dangerous thing in the room. Tom took another drink.

“So did you _know_ it was a dragon before you showed up?” Dean asked, looking at Jamie. 

Mr. Fraser nodded. “Aye. Weel, we had some idea. But we didna ken ye were there until I heard gunshots and the creature howl.” He and Dean shared a smirk. “I kent anything that large and angry must be dealing with the Winchesters. The scent of brimstone was another clue.”

Sam snorted and nodded as he tipped his bottle back. 

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong,” Dean replied.

“What we don’t know,” John interjected, “is what has drawn the creature into the open. Or to its current lair, specifically.”

“Aye,” Jamie said. “I thought dragons were extinct. Or a myth.”

The Winchesters exchanged a look that was probably meaningful to each other but completely lost on Tom. “We faced one a few years ago,” Dean explained. 

“Yeah, and we killed it,” Sam added. “We thought that was the last one, since no one had seen one in over seven hundred years.”

“That has been recorded, at least.” John arched one of his elegant eyebrows at Sam, who compressed his lips in response but didn’t interrupt. “What did the last one want? In my experience, creatures who enjoy such a large degree of anonymity don’t surface without a motive.”

“Virgins,” Dean answered. “Gold. The apocalypse. You know, the usual.” He took another long drink of his beer. “We caught wind of this one following up on a streak of abductions. Young women and men, mostly from upper-middle class families.” He winced. “Didn’t connect the dots at first because the other dragon was only nabbing female virgins.” Dean shrugged and raised his nearly-empty bottle again. “I guess this one is less picky.” 

“Perhaps he’s amassing his power,” John suggested. “Casting a wider net?”

Tom swallowed another drink of beer. The fingers of his left hand, still jammed into the pocket of his skinny jeans, were going stiff and sore from being clenched into an anxious fist. So many parts of a dragon were rumored to be powerful magical ingredients. If they managed to kill this one, Tom could build new weapons, defensive charms, more tools for John’s bag of tricks. So many possibilities. Tom’s stomach gave an excited flip at the thought of getting his hands on _real_ dragon claws, dragon’s blood. God, maybe even the thing’s heart…

He didn’t realize that Dean had been speaking to him until John nudged him with his elbow and gave him one of those handsome, raised-eyebrow looks. “Beg your pardon?” Tom squeaked.

Dean’s eyes narrowed at him but stayed patient. “I asked how you got involved in this. You’re awfully young and a long way from home.”

Tom stole a glance at John, who looked steady and unafraid. It made him feel more confident, and he sat up straighter in the chair, forcing his hand out of his pocket and onto the table in front of him. “We all have our reasons, I suppose,” he answered carefully. “When I saw what was really out there, I guess you might say I couldn’t unsee it.” They would assume he meant things that go bump in the night and Tom was not about to specify that he meant he’d seen _good, honest_ people. That he’d seen John, who was so different from the world he’d been raised in.

The Winchesters nodded solemnly. They’d heard this line before. Whether they knew it was a line or not, Tom couldn’t tell. But they seemed to accept it and moved on, swapping war stories, theories. There was an unusual easiness that passed between Dean and Mr. Fraser that Tom found surprising. John’s Scottish friend usually had the opposite effect on people, being enormous and scary and perpetually brooding. But Dean and his brother were also rather enormous and scary, Dean particularly broody. Would Tom himself and John end up like that? Not enormous of course, but if they stayed in the life long enough, would they too develop that dark knife-edge to their eyes?

There was a lull in the conversation, and John jumped in. “How did you kill the other one? The dragon, I mean.”

Dean tossed a casual nod toward his brother. “Sam stabbed him with a broken sword while he was still T-1000.” Sam bristled and shifted uncomfortably at the remark. Tom and John exchanged confused glances. They had no idea what anything meant after the word _sword_.

Mr. Fraser sat back in his chair in a move that Tom noted put his boot knife in easy reach as he gave Sam Winchester a diamond-hard stare. For several agonizing heartbeats, Tom thought they would all spontaneously combust or literally suffocate under the tension. “I kent there was something wrong with ye when we first met. It wasna demon possession, I ken that. What was it?”

Sam met Mr. Fraser’s glare without fear. “I got dragged out of Lucifer’s cage in the pit and my soul didn’t make it out. Side effect of stopping an apocalypse.”

Tom choked on his beer, fighting to keep the weak lager from coming out of his nose. John thumped him on the back, which was a kind gesture but not terribly helpful. Holy shit, the stories were true, he thought. _I am so very dead_.

The Winchesters and Mr. Fraser hadn’t settled their staring contest though, and the only person who seemed to even notice that Tom had nearly drowned himself on dry land was John. At long last Mr. Fraser nodded as if to himself. “This has been resolved, then?”

“Yeah. It has,” Dean said, voice gruff. “We good?”

Mr. Fraser relaxed, his left hand coming back into view, still empty. “Aye. We’re square.”

“Was it a specific kind of sword?” John asked. “If any sword will do, or can be modified, we surely have enough to go around between our respective resources.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s got to be made especially to kill dragons. There’s only rumors of a few ever made, and the one we had is gone. We never found it ag—”

The lights went out in the room, plunging them into sudden darkness, the buzzing fluorescent bulbs suddenly silenced. Within a second or two red emergency lights came on, flashing a slow rhythm in time with a tinny klaxon about as loud as a modern fire alarm. The Winchesters were on their feet in an instant, hands flying to draw weapons from holsters concealed at their backs. Mr. Fraser and John both drew their own pistols, and Tom followed suit more slowly. He still wasn’t a good enough shot to do much good, he thought, but it was better than nothing. 

“What the bloody hell is that?” John demanded, subtly drawing Tom into a defensive triangle with Mr. Fraser.

“Proximity alarm,” Dean barked over the siren. “Something’s at the door.”

“Something?” Tom squeaked out, taking steadying breaths. 

Over the blaring siren came an infuriated, shrieking roar, distant and muffled, but definitely close. “Son of a bitch,” Dean swore, at the same time that Mr. Fraser muttered, “ _Mhac na galla.”_

“The dragon,” Sam and John said in unison.

“Can it get in?” Tom asked. Why no one else thought to wonder that was beyond him.

“No clue,” Dean answered, eyes toward a metal set of stairs that led up to a huge steel door. The door rattled in its frame. “Yeah, maybe. Come on.” 

They made for the garage at a run, Dean skidding to a halt at the trunk of his big black impala and jamming his key into the lock, yanked out a hard shell case of some kind, and slammed the trunk shut again. He tossed the keys to his brother, who caught them and dove into the driver's seat and brought the engine to life.

Tom climbed into Mr. Fraser’s truck, leaning over the bench seat to take up the shotgun from the gun rack. Through the smudged back windshield, he caught a glance of John and Dean hopping into the bed of the truck, bracing against the toolbox as Fraser sped out of the garage in reverse. 

They emerged into the hazy early dawn, the sunrise barely sufficient to cast the misleadingly empty field in a cloudy gray fog. Not thirty feet from where Mr. Fraser drove them out of the garage, a dark figure hulked. It was easily larger than the oversized pick-up, and it turned sharply toward them. There was absolutely no other way to describe the thing beyond “dragon.” The reptilian face may have been torn directly from the pages of Tolkien. An angular snout gave way to flaring nostrils, slanted eyes that honestly reminded Tom of Mr. Fraser’s, only bright gold and faintly illuminated from within. The thing opened its gaping maw and bellowed again. The blazing glow of fire showed in the back of the dragon’s throat, though it didn’t belch flame like Tom expected.

“Jesus Christ!” Tom swore, loading the shotgun. He’d probably regret not wearing a seatbelt but it would restrict his movement too much. Better to be thrown through a windshield than eaten, he supposed.

“Aye,” Fraser agreed, turning them onto the road and slamming the car into drive. Sam was right behind them in the impala, so close Tom couldn’t see his headlights. 

Dean and John both shouldered weapons that looked like they’d come directly from some modern battlefield. “Hold on!” Fraser shouted and cut a hard turn to the right into the field, putting the dragon on a perpendicular path. John fired his RPG first, the blowback going harmlessly over the other side of the truck bed. 

The grenade hit the dragon in the wing as its huge form left the ground, knocking it off balance and sending it tumbling to the grass in a heap. Dean fired his grenade launcher just as the beast crashed, and the dirt around it exploded into a menacing cloud. The dust began to settle as they sped away, and the huge shape of the dragon’s true form was gone. 

Tom turned back around to sit in the seat correctly, balancing the shotgun between his knees, which had gone rather watery with receding adrenaline. He tugged his seatbelt across his body with a shaky hand, fastened it with a fumbling click, and collapsed back against the headrest. 

Mr. Fraser blew out a long breath, eyes constantly cutting up to the rearview mirror as he charged down the narrow country road. “Are ye alright, wee Byrd?”

Tom nodded. “Yes. I’m fine.” He looked over his shoulder at John and Dean, who sat facing each other on either side of the truck bed. “Do you suppose they killed it?”

“No’ likely,” Fraser said, fastening his own seatbelt, putting an abrupt end to the warning ding from the dash. Tom hadn’t even noticed it in all the excitement and the fleeing for their lives. “But if we’re lucky it won’t risk taking its true form in the daylight. That should buy us some time.”

* * *

Eventually, Jamie pulled the truck off the road and four-wheeled it onto a gravel service road. Grey gripped the side of the truck to keep from getting thrown from the truck bed as the gravel path sloped down under a bridge, providing plenty of cover from the main road. Sam parked the Impala next to Jamie’s truck and Grey hopped out as the rumbling diesel engine shut off.

“How did it find us?” Jamie asked. “I didna see it following us when we left the warehouse.”

“Nor did I,” Grey said. “Is it possible that your whereabouts are more well-known than you thought?

Sam shook his head. “It must be tracking us somehow. But I can’t think of anything from the lore. I mean they’re supernatural hoarders, right? Gold, jewels, that sorta thing.”

Dean scrubbed his hand over his jaw, his rough palm rasping over stubble. After a moment of pacing he raised one hand, the other braced on his hip. “Alright, show of hands. Never have I ever carried more than a thousand dollars in gold or cash. Specifically, right now.”

The five of them exchanged questioning looks, shrugging and shaking their heads in the negative. Grey himself rarely carried more than fifty or sixty dollars on him at a time, and he figured that Tom had no more than that to his name. Hunting wasn’t a lucrative business, afterall. 

Dean nodded. “Alright. Never have I ever had sex.”

Grey almost laughed it off as an absurd notion given that all five of them were endowed with generally staggering physical attractiveness, but a small noise to his right drew his attention to Tom. The young man was beet red to the ears, staring intently at his shoes as he raised one sheepish hand in a jerky, unsteady motion.

Dean dropped his hand to his side. “Well, there we go. There’s our homing beacon.”

Poor Tom looked like he could crawl into a hole and pull the dirt in after him, casting his eyes about, searching for an escape perhaps. He seemed impossibly young all of a sudden, embarrassed, vulnerable. The Winchesters had turned toward each other, speaking privately in hushed tones.

“I should… I should go,” Tom said. “I’ll only endanger the group. As long as I’m with you, the dragon will be able to find us.” He started for the gravel slope back to the road, but Grey stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Nonsense, Tom,” John said. “We need all the help we can get, and your particular skills may yet prove useful. And it’s even more dangerous for you to be off on your own with that thing hunting you.”

“Aye,” Jamie said, appearing at Grey’s side. “Besides, it’s only a threat so long as ye’re a virgin.” Jamie winced when Tom shot him a narrowed-eyed glare. “Aye, I ken ‘tis no’ ideal. We’ll think of something. Dinna fash.”

Dean joined their little huddle now, looking sympathetic at least. “Yeah, don’t sweat it. There’s a town not far from here. I’m the world’s greatest wingman. Besides,” he added with a wink. “Chicks dig an accent.”

Grey shot Dean an angry glare at the heteronormative generalization but for the sake of expediency said nothing. He had no idea if Dean was on the mark about Tom or not. They had never discussed it in the three years they’d been hunting together, ever since Grey had spared his life. Refocusing his attention on Tom, though, showed Grey immediately that Dean had _not_ , in fact, assumed correctly.

Dean noticed too. “Ah, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t’ve been so specific,” he muttered and shut his mouth, plunging them toward what would very soon become an awkward silence. 

Tom looked more and more miserable with each passing second. Grey had to fix it, had to make this easier for him. “You three figure out how to kill the dragon. Come walk with me, Tom.” Grey took Tom’s arm again and steered him toward the other side of the bridge, trusting Jamie to ensure the Winchesters agreed with the wisdom of his instructions. “Tom, I am so sorry,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot. “That must have been incredibly uncomfortable for you. Are you alright?”

The young man let out a long sigh and nodded. "Yes, I'm fine.” He sat down heavily on a stack of cinder blocks and buried his face in his hands. He barked out a rueful laugh into his palms. “And to think,” he said, looking up at Grey, who eased himself onto a fallen log a few feet away. “To think my mum forced me to stay a virgin because she thought it would make me more powerful.” Tom snorted and bent to pick up a stick and jam it into the dirt, drawing idle gouges in the earth, his gaze intent on his task. “A powerful liability is more like it.”

Grey frowned, looking for the right thing to say. Neither of them much liked talking about Tom’s family, about his coven. And they had been together for a little more than three years, hunting partners. Brothers in arms, in a way. Tom wasn’t the typical hunter, that was damned true. He was slight of build, not terribly strong in the physical sense. A truly abysmal shot with a handgun at any distance greater than six paces. Give him a rifle with proper optics, though, and he could drop anything that bullets could kill at a hundred yards. While Grey was no slouch with computers, the only thing keeping Tom from toppling the technical infrastructure of smaller nations was a moral compass that generally pointed north. And his encyclopedic knowledge of the arcane and how to dispatch its various flavors was unmatched. 

In the past three years, they’d shared transatlantic flights, infinite miles crisscrossing the continent of North America, meals, motel rooms, occasionally falling asleep stretched out together in the bed of Jamie Fraser’s pickup when the three of them couldn’t find or afford lodging. And while Grey had made neither a secret of nor flaunted his occasional hook-ups, it hadn’t occurred to him that Tom wasn’t doing the same. Hunters led very survivalist lifestyles, taking food, sleep, shelter, and sex as one could find it.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Tom,” Grey said softly. “I swear that I will protect you, with my last breath if I must. Did I not promise you that? To keep you safe?”

Tom nodded but didn’t look at John, though the motion of the stick slowed. “You did. And you have.”

“Then I will continue to do so. Perhaps there’s a spell we could work that would… mask you to the dragon?”

Tom shook his head after several long moments of contemplation. Grey could almost see the mental pages turning in Tom’s head as the young man searched his internal card catalog. “I don’t think so. Nothing I could manage fast enough anyway.”

The silence stretched between them. “There’s no shame in saving yourself, Tom. For the right person. Or for no one, if that’s what you want. The choice is truly yours. Entirely yours. I don’t give a damn what the Winchesters or even Jamie Fraser have to say on the matter. There’s five of us. For hunters, that’s practically an army.”

Tom snorted and nodded. “That’s true, it is.” He took the stick out of the dirt and began breaking off the tiny bits of mostly dry rotted bark with his thumbnail.

Grey rose. “I’ll go tell the others to find a way to kill the dragon. We can separate if need be. You and I can be on the other side of the world by this time tomorrow. Ironically enough, I don’t believe there are any dragons in Sweden.” He offered Tom a warm smile that he didn’t think the other man saw. “It will be alright.” He wanted so much to say _I promise_. If it had been vampires or werewolves, vengeful spirits, even demons, Grey would have promised. But they’d never faced anything so powerful as a dragon before. And he was becoming more and more certain that he would in fact draw his last breath defending Tom from this foe. If he didn’t walk away now, his bravado would fail him, and then Tom would know he was frightened for them.

When he returned to Jamie and the Winchesters, he caught the name _Excalibur_ and laughed, which brought the conversation to a halt. “Don’t get me wrong,” Grey said. “I also grew up on T. H. White. But short of boiling black cats to get at the bones, I doubt seriously that the Arthurian legends have much practical knowledge to impart. Certainly nothing that could be of much assistance against a real dragon.”

“Apparently _Excalibur_ was real, but there are less than no clues about where it is,” Dean said and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We know there were five or six swords forged in dragon blood,” Sam said. “ _Excalibur_ is one. The sword of Buncvik was another. That was the one we used to kill the last dragon, but it’s gone. Then there’s the sword of St. George, and two or three others we don’t know anything about.”

Jamie tapped the fingers of his right hand against his tartan-clad thigh. John eyed him. “Jamie? You’ve got an idea?”

Jamie nodded, chewing on his lip. “Aye. Aye, I think so.” 

“We’re waiting with bated breath, man,” Dean said, each word dripping with impatient sarcasm.

“I believe the sword of St. George is in Chicago.” Jamie shrugged. “I’ve never had cause to look for myself, mind. But I ken the bishop there, and I think I remember him saying something about St. George. And he’s in the know, you might say.”

The Winchesters gaped at Jamie. “You know him?” Dean asked. “What, did you meet at a mixer or something?”

Jamie fixed Dean with a level stare. “We usually just call it ‘mass,’ Dean.” 

Sam and John both snorted.

“Right,” Dean said. He nodded at John. “So what’s up with the kid? We gonna get him laid or what?”

“Or what,” Grey said. “I assured Tom that we wouldn’t force him into something he isn’t willing to do. And I intend to keep that promise." He fixed Dean with a challenging stare. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Dean shook his head. "No. No problem at all." His voice was softer now, kinder. And Grey detected a hint of sympathetic understanding, a dark shadow across his eyes in the slowly brightening dawn. 

He knew the Winchesters by reputation, and if even a fraction of the stories he'd heard were true—and Grey strongly suspected most of them were—these men had survived literal hell. And they’d probably sacrificed entirely too much of themselves to do it. Grey allowed himself to relax his posture, more confident now that at least Tom’s autonomy was safe, even if the dragon still posed a very real threat to life and limb.

“Byrd and I can be on the next flight out of the country,” Grey said. “I doubt the dragon will follow us if it realizes you’re still here to keep it busy.”

Fraser faced John, handsome blue eyes full of an endearing amount of worry. “Nay, John. It’s safer for ye both if we stay together.”

“He’s right,” Sam said. “We need all the hands we can get. We’ll figure it out, especially if Jamie can get the St. George sword.”

The low sound of a tentatively cleared throat made John turn to see Tom, still fiddling with the stick which was now charred on one end. “I’ll do it.”

No one spoke for several long heartbeats. “You’ll do what, Tom?” John asked. He had a very good idea what the young man meant but Grey wanted to be sure everyone was entirely on the same page. This was Tom’s decision and absolutely no one was going to take that choice away from him.

Tom’s eyes met Grey’s, dark and haunted. No one of twenty-five deserved to have been through as much as he had, and Grey found himself wrestling with the urge to embrace him, to physically shield him from everything that tormented him. “I think my mum was wrong about it. About being more powerful as a virgin.” 

Grey felt the tension crackle in the air behind him but he ignored it, kept his back to the Winchesters and his attention on Tom.

“And besides,” Tom went on, all his words spilling out of him in a nervous jumble. “Even if she was right, I don’t have need of that kind of power anyway.”

“ _Power_?” Dean demanded. The heavy crunching of boots on gravel and the prickle at Grey’s nape alerted him to the elder Winchester’s approach.

Gesturing Tom to stay behind him, Grey turned around and squared off with Dean, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Jamie stiffen, prepared to jump in.

"What are you, kid?" Dean asked. 

"He's a hunter," Grey said, putting as much steel into his voice as he could. He thought it was rather a lot, judging by how wide Dean's eyes went.

"I'm a witch," Tom said. He had been a nervous wreck since they realized they were with the infamous Winchesters, but none of that fear came through his voice. John felt a thrill of pride go through him to hear Tom's bravery. 

Dean turned his attention to Grey. "And you?"

"Mere mortal," he answered. "Tom was not a willing member of his coven. He was the only survivor when I took them out." Grey swallowed hard, forcing away the memory. The tempest of conflicting emotions in young Tom's eyes when he'd watched Grey kill his mother… 

"That's right." Tom stepped up next to Grey, back straight and shoulders squared. "And I had never known anything else of the world save for my mum's coven. So John took me in, taught me to hunt. Gave me a home. Or at least, as much of one as hunters ever get."

"I've hunted with them both off and on for years," Jamie interjected. "Ye can trust them."

"It wouldn't be the first time we extended a little faith, Dean," Sam said, voice low. 

Grey had heard those stories too. Deals with demons. Alliances with vampires and werewolves. Even something like a friendship with the King of Hell, if the rumors were true. Surely one reformed witch with two hunters to vouch for him couldn’t be too much of a stretch. 

At last, Dean nodded, and everyone—especially Tom and Grey—seemed to let out the collective breath they were holding. “Okay,” Dean said. “So, what’s the plan? Are we taking you into town?”

They didn’t have that kind of time. Grey knew that. Everyone else had to know that too. Tom did. Grey could see it in the shake of his head. “Even with the ‘world’s greatest wingman,’” Tom said, hooking his fingers into quotation marks around Dean’s words, “where am I going to find a casual hookup at…” he slid his mobile out of his pocket and checked the time. “Seven in the morning?”

“Good point,” Dean muttered.

Tom met Grey’s eyes. He’d dropped the blackened stick and shoved one fist into his pocket, drawing John’s attention to how tight his jeans really were. A chilly autumn breeze stirred Tom’s dark mop of unruly hair and Grey realized he was staring intently at Tom’s mouth as he chewed on his bottom lip. Then it all fell into place. “Would you… want me?” Grey asked him, quite forgetting that the other three men were even on the planet, much less within earshot.

After the barest of pauses Tom gave a slow, silent nod. “Yes, if you’ll… that is… if that’s… alright?”

He felt three pairs of eyes on him, but Tom's were the only ones he saw, boring into Grey with a naked hunger. All of the lingering touches, the intense stares when Tom thought John wasn't looking, the fetching way his cheeks would flush pink whenever Grey told a dirty joke. It all made sense now. And Tom was a rather attractive young man, this much Grey had already noticed. Kind and sweet, brilliant, courageous. And then his _own_ feelings started to make sense. How a few nights sharing a bed with Tom out of necessity, or watching him dive into a lake wearing nothing but his thin underwear would lead Grey to work out his frustrations by hand or in the bed of some stranger. And all the while it had never occurred to John that Tom might return the attraction.

Tom's steady gaze began to waver and Grey realized he'd been lost in thought and Tom was waiting for an answer. "Yes, Tom," Grey said, giving him a fond smile. "That would be more than alright."

Dean clapped his hands once, shattering the moment. "Okay. That settles it. John and the kid'll get busy so we can get sneaky. Sammy will keep them from getting caught with their pants down. And me and Braveheart will go get the magic sword to slay the dragon. Easy peasy." He rubbed his forehead with one hand, grimacing. "I mean, we've done weirder things for a case."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be adding a third (and final) chapter as soon as I finish it. This one got away from me.
> 
> This chapter fills my Outlander Bingo square: **Teaching a Character How to Masturbate**

After only a brief discussion, they agreed to drive another hour together toward Chicago to put some more distance between them and the dragon. They were pretty sure it would follow them—well, it would follow Tom anyway—and with any luck they’d be able to draw it away from expensive collateral damage. They paused for a quick breakfast, hastily devoured while the men leaned against the vehicles in what passed for the parking lot of the diner where they’d stopped. The five of them—though Tom remained mostly silent—passed ideas back and forth about how to find the dragon again once they had the sword, and it was no longer following Tom like a transponder. Dean and Mr. Fraser reached an agreement that it wouldn’t take long for it to surface again, though no one seemed pleased with the loss of life that strategy implied.

Tom could scarcely eat more than a few bites of his sandwich, barely listening to the conversation and contributing none. His stomach was knotted with anticipatory nerves. He cared a great deal for John, had been attracted to him for years. Every casual, friendly touch between them sent fire through Tom’s entire body. Their knees touching in the front seat of Mr. Fraser’s truck was enough to make him forget everything he knew about navigating. And on the nights when they’d had to share a bed or sleep rough, huddled together for warm, Tom had almost never slept. He’d just lie awake thinking he’d burst if John didn’t touch him in some intentionally intimate way. A few times last summer they’d taken a day off to swim whenever they happened upon a lake or a river, and Tom hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from John. His body was made of that subtle, practical kind of muscle, his skin fair and lovely and marred by a few dashing scars. Tom knew every single one of those scars. Had either heard the story of each one, seen it inflicted himself, or tended to it after the fact. 

Tom knew about John’s men too. John didn’t hide it, didn’t keep it a secret. It filled Tom with an ugly cold jealousy whenever John would go off with one, not returning to their motel until the wee hours of the morning. Tom could never sleep when John was away with someone. He would toss and turn and worry and seethe until he heard the key in the door, and then throw the covers over his face and play possum. 

After breakfast, Mr. Fraser handed his keys over to John and slid into the passenger seat of Dean's impala. After Dean's instruction to Sam to keep the GPS turned on on his phone, Tom, John, and Sam watched the old black car speed away. As John reached between his legs to scoot the bench seat forward—very forward—a revelation shot through Tom like lightning. 

"Oh!" he shouted, bouncing on the seat, barely able to contain his excitement as Sam and John both turned interested gazes at him. "I have an idea! It'll take a little time to put it all together but I think I know how to make the dragon come to us when we're ready for him to!"

It took them several hours and no small amount of grand larceny to gather the supplies that Tom needed for his spell. Sam and John had both proclaimed him a genius, Sam's lips pursing, clearly impressed. John beamed at him, grinning wide with undisguised pride and Tom could have kissed him. The thought that soon he _could_ kiss John sent his stomach flipping again. This time the mix was mostly excitement, less nerves. 

The sun was still high in the sky but headed inexorably toward the horizon when John pulled the truck off the two-lane blacktop and reversed through a break in the crimson and yellow trees that lined the street. The opening was narrow enough that Tom and Sam both winced, some of the dried branches scratched at the paint job. 

“It’s alright,” John said when they’d made it through the skrim of trees. “I don’t think Jamie will even notice. Probably.” He parked far enough back that the average driver ignoring the inconsistently-posted speed limit signs on the road wouldn’t notice the truck, and come nightfall it would be completely invisible.

The three men piled out of the truck, the smattering of early autumn leaf litter crunching under their shoes. Tom took off his jacket and hopped up onto the tailgate, his legs swinging as he perched there. Sam opened up a case of syringes, sterile needles, and collection tubes—the tools they would need for the first stage of their spell work. 

“You have done this before?” John asked. Heat flooded Tom’s cheeks and he focused on the fresh tear in the thigh of his black skinny jeans to keep John from seeing him blush. He hated the thought of Tom being hurt, and though he was reasonably certain that Sam wouldn’t exsanguinate him, Tom was the only one of them who could do this part.

Sam gave a rather unconvincing shrug. “Basically? I mean, I’m no phlebotomist, but I think I can hit a vein.” He looked at the inside of Tom’s elbow which displayed a clear blue line of one. “Especially one that I can see.”

“It’s alright,” Tom said when he found his voice. “I’ve done blood magic before, plenty of times. I expect doing it this way will hurt less than the usual way, which is almost always a blade of some sort of ill repute.”

“Quite,” John said, not sounding all that reassured. 

In the end, it really wasn’t that bad, just a bit of a pinch. And Sam had collected what Tom hoped would amount to enough virgin blood for the spell, safely sealed in a handful of vials until he was ready for them. 

Even though Tom didn’t think it entirely necessary, John smoothed a bandage over his arm, his touch sending sparks across Tom’s skin. When John met his gaze, his expression was soft, kind. But his eyes bore directly through whatever pretense had ever existed between them. “Are you sure you want to do this, Tom?”

Tom nodded, his attention drifting briefly to John’s lips. “I am. Are _you_ sure? You have a choice too, you know.”

John’s lips stretched into a genuine smile that burnt Tom to his core, and then interlaced their fingers. “I do want you, Tom.”

Sam cleared his throat, sounding rather awkward about it. “Not to, um… spoil the mood. But we are burning daylight. That thing will be in the air as soon as the sun sets.”

“Right you are,” John answered, slinging a backpack over one shoulder as Tom hopped off the tailgate. Sam would stay with the truck to keep watch while John and Tom found whatever privacy they could manage outside under the late afternoon sun.

When they were out of Sam’s earshot, John gave Tom’s hand a squeeze accompanied by an expression of regret. “I am sorry that your first time isn’t going to be spontaneous or terribly romantic.”

“You know I hate surprises, mate,” Tom replied, flashing him a wry smile. “Besides, what’s not romantic about the classic life-or-death scenario? There’s entire film plots that depend on that trope to be successful.” In a thrilling display of boldness—because why the heck not—Tom took hold of John’s hand and tangled their fingers together as they walked, let his smile go genuine. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Before long, they came upon a cluster of brush that still had most of its foliage, none of which looked poisonous, that at least afforded the illusion of seclusion. Tom watched as Grey pulled a blanket out of the backpack, one of the sturdy ones they used when they had to camp, and helped him spread it out on the ground. They stood there staring at each other awkwardly until Tom nearly lost his nerve. He kept a hold of it and, dropping his jacket on the ground, started to tug his Walmart brand Ramones T-shirt off.

John stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Wait," he said.

Oh God, he was changing his mind, he didn't actually want to—

"Do you want to just get it over with?" John asked. "Or do you want to try to enjoy it? We have time I think, if you'd permit me to do this right." He let go of Tom's wrist, gave him the space to make the choice. "It is up to you, after all."

Tom let his shirt fall back into place but fiddled with the hem with one hand. His mouth had gone dry and he chewed on his lower lip. Of course he didn’t want to _just get it over with_. He was twenty-five, for God’s sake. He’d waited this long, he might as well savor it if he could. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll teach you,” John said softly.

Just like he’d taught Tom everything else. About being a hunter, about right from wrong. About music and driving and fighting. About being a good man. Everything the coven had denied him, John had given him, patiently filling in the gaps until Tom found himself a man much changed from the youth that John had spared. And as with all the other things John had taught him, Tom was entirely naive about sex. He’d seen people kiss before, at least. 

Tom surged forward and crashed his mouth against John’s, their noses colliding rather painfully with his clumsy attempt. He felt John smile as he gently pushed Tom back. “Let’s maybe start by getting comfortable,” John said. “And then we’ll revisit kissing.” He sat on the blanket, tugging on Tom’s hand until he followed, eagerly, enthralled by John’s every word and movement. Just like always. Once they were both seated, John took off his heavy work boots, Tom following his lead. Then John shrugged out of his jacket and braced himself against one strong arm, leaning toward Tom. They sat so close that their legs rested against each other from hip to knee. Tom leaned into him, as if drawn by a magnet.

John laid one hand on Tom’s face, cupping his jaw, thumb stroking over his cheek, leaving heat in its wake. “Is that better?” he asked, voice no more than a whisper.

Tom nodded, heart pounding in his chest. This was it. This was it. _This is it…_

John’s lips were warm on his, feather-light at first, no more than an experimental brush. But _dear Lord,_ was it everything. Fire shot through Tom, stole the very oxygen from his lungs, made him giddy, desperate for more. John must have felt it too, he _had_ to have. Because he was kissing Tom again, more and more, his wet tongue insistent and demanding and hot in his mouth— _yes, yes, yes_. 

“Can I take your shirt off, Tom?” John gave Tom’s shirt and inquisitive tug.

Tom nodded, eagerly fumbling open the buttons of John’s shirt. Just the top few, pausing long enough for John to rid him of his t-shirt before yanking John’s off over his head. Tom skimmed his fingers over John’s bare chest, traced the puckered scar where a wraith had nearly skewered John’s heart. Tom had stitched that one up himself. And the slash further down where a werewolf had tried to disembowel him. All the familiar imperfections that told the story of John’s hard life felt so new and wonderful in some strange way that Tom couldn’t really define yet, and he didn’t think it really mattered. All that mattered was the cool blanket under his bare back, John’s warm skin on top of him, the sparks that flew when John sucked on Tom’s lower lip.

“Would you like to touch me?” John asked, thrusting against Tom’s hand hovering on his lap so that he could feel the hard bulge in his jeans.

“Y-yes,” Tom said, his mouth dry and his own cock hard and straining his jeans. “I mean… I don’t…”

John unbuckled his belt and Tom heard his zipper. “You can start by just doing to me what you like to do to yourself.”

Tom froze, embarrassed heat flooding his cheeks. His mother’s rules had been _incredibly_ strict, her warnings and threats particularly dire, the consequences… 

“Oh. My dear Tom,” John said, tone kind and understanding as always. “The coven?”

He nodded. “And after you got me out, it never occurred to me that I could or… should…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, wasn’t even sure what the end of the sentence sounded like. He just swallowed hard around the lump of uneasiness in his throat.

John kissed him again, sweet and tender and bright as the autumn afternoon sun on their skin and the embarrassment vanished. “I can teach you that, too. Is it alright if I take your pants off?”

“Please,” Tom said, fighting to keep from whimpering. He was uncomfortably hard, and John was peeling his skinny jeans down, taking his underpants at the same time and dropping them both on the pile of shirts and jackets. The breeze was cool against Tom’s bare flesh, but the sun and John’s hands were warm as he laid down on his side, pulling Tom back against him spoon fashion.

John's arms were a solid and safe shelter around Tom's middle. And whatever exposed, naked feeling he had shifted from distraction to the most natural, wonderfully intimate sensation. Gooseflesh erupted down Tom's arm under John's soft caress as he made his way to Tom's hand and guided him to wrap his fingers around his own cock. It reminded him of the time John had taught him to fire a shotgun, how all Tom had had to do was let John put his body in the proper position. And when he'd pulled the trigger, the force of the recoil had driven him back against John's chest, his shoulder awash with a fantastic, new bruise.

Except now Tom felt the jolt of this through his entire body, with John's hand over his, encouraging him to squeeze himself. Tom gasped and rocked into his own touch, hot pleasure like lightning taking his breath away. 

“That’s it,” John murmured, laying kisses to the back of his bare shoulder and sliding their hands up and down along Tom’s leaking cock. “Just listen to your body. Do what feels good. That’s the only criteria for this, that you feel good.”

It _all_ felt good. John's guiding touch, so smooth and confident in comparison to Tom's unsure, faltering grip. But even _that_ felt good. The quiet whisper of the bright red and yellow leaves fluttering from the trees. The desperate warmth of the sun warring with the cool breeze over Tom's skin. The reassuring press of John’s body against his back…

It happened so fast. One moment, there was an insistent heat that drove him to move faster, grip himself just a little tighter. The next he was spilling over their hands and spattering onto the blanket, shuddering and crying out John’s name in a breathy gasp. And John let out a groan, pressing his lips against the back of Tom’s neck, bringing their hands slowly to a halt. 

“Well done,” John said, just like he always said whenever Tom picked up a new skill. Except this time John was planting wet kisses all over Tom’s neck and shoulder and he wanted those lips on his. “It’s normal for your first time to be quick,” John said, quieting the concern that hadn’t quite coalesced in Tom’s mind. “The next one will take longer.”

Tom turned over in John’s arms and kissed him with an open mouth, silently begging for John’s tongue. Alright, maybe not _silently_ but the noises he made weren’t words. "I want to touch you like that," Tom said. His hands only shook a little bit as they went to John’s jeans. 

John nodded. “I want you to.” He rolled onto his back and lifted his hips so Tom could pull his trousers off. 

They’d led very close, rather enmeshed lives but this was the first time Tom had really _looked_ at John’s naked body. And now that he was looking and with intent, his mouth positively watered. Not that he had much frame of reference for the attractiveness of cocks in general, but he thought John’s was rather fantastic. About the same length as his but maybe a little bigger around. Unable to help it if he’d wanted to, Tom licked his lips.

John grinned up at him. “However you’d like to touch me, I am happy to let you.”

Tom reached out for John, wrapped his fingers lightly around his silky-smooth hardness, a thrill going through him when John’s eyes fluttered closed in a moment of bliss. He tried to mimic how John had touched him. And though Tom thought he was still rather clumsy, John seemed to be enjoying it. 

“Christ, Tom,” John said in a hoarse whisper. He reached for Tom’s free hand and pulled him down close, kissing him. He would _never_ get tired of kissing John. And John was so good at it, but then, he was good at pretty much everything. All Tom had to do was follow.

“What else do you want to try?” John asked. “It’s okay if you don’t know.”

“I haven’t a bloody clue,” he said and let out a somewhat unhinged laugh. Tom still felt a bit high, and the reminder that he could have more was beyond exciting. “Can we try whatever you want to do? And if I don’t like it, I can just say so?”

John’s eyes actually rolled back in his head at the suggestion and he groaned. “Absolutely.” He claimed Tom’s mouth in a rough kiss, devouring him with a fist curled into his hair. Tom hissed, more from startlement than from pain and found he _liked_ the blunt ache of having his hair pulled. John fumbled with the backpack, got it yanked closer, and dug furiously into the outer pocket, producing a bottle of lube. He flipped the cap open and drizzled some on the fingers of one hand, pressing Tom to lay back with the other. Fallen leaves gave a muffled crunch under the blanket when Tom laid on his back, the angle making it too awkward to keep stroking John’s cock. But he wanted to keep a hand on him somehow, to keep that connection, so he let his hand rest on John’s thigh.

“Not everyone enjoys this,” John said, easing Tom’s legs apart. “And it’s okay if you don’t either. It might be a lot for your first time…”

He was stalling, damn it, and Tom was getting turned on again, even if his own cock hadn’t caught up quite yet. “ _John_ ,” he said. “Really, mate, I’ll tell you if I don’t like it. I promise.”

Without further annoying preamble, John slid one hand down to the cleft of Tom's ass, teasing at his hole with a single, slippery fingertip. Tom jumped and let out a squeak of surprise, quieting immediately when John's other hand settled warm and reassuring high up his bare thigh. Once the initial shock was over though, it felt good for John to touch him there and he stilled.

John's face went through the most incredible array of emotions, from an almost panicked kind of concern, to understanding, and then settling into a hot sort of desire. He bent low and kissed Tom again, his tongue barely ghosting over Tom's lips, teasing. "Relax," John whispered into his mouth. 

Tom did relax, nestled safe between the unmarred earth and the equally steadfast weight of John's body draped halfway over him. He could have set down roots there and let John and the ground hold him forever 

"That's it," John whispered and began to push his finger inside. Tom startled again but didn't jerk away, he just gripped John's arm. The intrusion wasn't unenjoyable but it was such a strange feeling. "Easy now, let me in.” With a little effort, Tom yielded to John’s gentle words and his comforting hand on his thigh. "There's my good lad," John whispered, smiling down at him and wriggling his finger in ways that made Tom moan and bite his lip. 

"John," Tom gasped. It felt so good, everything was so good. The pleasure inside him. The taste of John's name on his lips, whispered so intimately. John's answering kiss with his demanding tongue heavy in Tom's mouth. More pressure then, another of John's wonderfully dexterous fingers, pressing steadily inside him, stretching him. Tom inhaled sharply through his nose, his wordless moan swallowed up by John's kisses. John whispered gentle, soothing praise into his mouth, caressing his thigh and stomach and hip, encouraging Tom to relax under his tender care. 

Tom had lost all sense of everything beyond his own body and John, but everything about John was crystal clear, in perfectly sharp focus. The sound of his breathing, the fascination and carefully controlled need in his eyes as he watched Tom. The warmth of his skin. The touch of his hands. Dear God, his hands. Taking him apart piece by piece, little by little. Stirring the embers of his arousal again, slowly coaxing it to glow just as steadily as John was coaxing him open.

No sooner had Tom realized that the dull burning sensation had subsided and he felt only the intimate stretch of John's fingers inside him, they were gone. John reached into the backpack and fished out a condom which he tore open and handed to Tom, who stared at it, unsure what to do. The little bit of somewhat slippery latex didn't look quite large enough to fit over John’s cock.

"It's alright," John said, taking Tom's hand and kissing the inside of his wrist. "It's simple, you'll see." He laid back on the blanket next to Tom, the late afternoon sun shining brilliant gold on John's exquisitely bare skin. Tom sat up and with patient touches and soft instructions, John showed him how to roll the condom into place. Then he squeezed a bit of lube onto Tom’s hand. It was chilly on his skin, and Tom spread it over his fingers with his thumb to warm it up before coating John’s prick with it. 

John hummed in pleasure and approval, then patted his own hip invitingly. “On you go then.” He guided Tom’s hand to the base of his cock as Tom straddled him. “Take hold of me so you can control the angle. That’s it, good. And just go as slow as you need to.”

It took a couple of tries, Tom biting his lip in concentration, but then he sank onto John, stretched around him, filled completely. He eased himself down, so slowly, his attention focused like a laser on the sensation of taking John inside him. John’s hands caressed Tom’s hips, his thighs. And then he was there, his legs trembling. It was so much. Too much. Not enough. Everything. 

John was tense and still beneath him, his fingertips pressing into Tom’s hips. He stared up at Tom, white hot lust in his eyes, full lips moist and parted and needing to collide with Tom's again. Feeling rather lightheaded, he rested his hands on John’s chest, anchored himself to him lest he float away. Tom was frozen there, just taking in everything, the fantastic array of new sensations. His cock laid heavy on John’s stomach, growing hard again.

“Christ, Tom,” John gasped. “You’re a furnace, did you know that? God. Whenever you’re comfortable, move however you like.” 

Tom shifted experimentally, just a little, and John threw his head back, exposing his throat. Tom licked his lips.

“Yes,” John said. “Jesus, I could get drunk off you.” 

“I think I already am,” Tom said, his head swimming. He rocked forward, just a little, testing the waters. He and John both let out pleasured hums, and Tom tried some more, moving a little farther, a little faster. The feel of John’s cock inside him was pure decadence; the knowledge that it was _John_ sent the butterflies in his stomach fluttering again. 

Tom watched John’s teeth sink into his lower lip, not a nervous gesture, something less definable. Tom couldn’t take it anymore. Without pausing his clumsy rocking—it felt entirely too perfect to stop—he bent low over John, who met him halfway. The powerful muscles under him went tight and firm with the motion and Tom twisted his fingers into John’s hair, holding him close. He dipped his tongue into John's mouth, hummed in delight at the taste of him, the feel of his teeth and the soft places there. The angle gave Tom just enough friction on his cock, hard now between them. He whimpered, the sound muffled by John’s mouth.

John’s hands slid back from Tom’s hips to grab the flesh of his ass, manhandling him, pushing him back and forth. All Tom really had to do was hold on, the blanket rough under his bare knees. Tom had stopped thinking about what he was doing, moving totally on sensation and instinct, chasing the pleasure. Dimly he realized that his back was cold, the cool autumn air drying the sweat on his skin. 

“Do you trust me to take good care of you, Tom?” John asked, breathless and nipping at Tom’s lips between his words.

Tom nodded. “Of course I do.”

Wrapping his arms tight around Tom, John surged forward, driving him backwards onto the blanket. Tom let out a squawk of surprise, crying out as John pounded into him over and over, brutal, ruthless. His hands rough on Tom's hips, his grip bruising. 

Over and over again, John collided with a place inside Tom that set off fireworks of ecstasy that exploded through his body. He held on for dear life, dug his fingernails into John's strong back, scraped his teeth over John's shoulder. John made an encouraging sound, so Tom bit down. 

John growled, "Sweet Jesus!" in his ear. Tom grinned as John's rhythm faltered and he crushed them tight together. "Fuck—Tom—Christ!" he cried, rambling Tom’s name over and over. 

Staring up at John with his hair wild and soaked with sweat, face flushed, chest heaving from exertion and ecstasy had Tom grinning broadly. He had done that, he realized with a thrill of pride flipping through his chest. Had given John such intense pleasure with his body, had been the reason that John felt so good. He peered at the fading indentations from his teeth on John’s shoulder, traced them with one finger.

“Oh, my precious Tom,” John whispered hoarsely, wiping the sweat from Tom’s face with the tender caress of one hand. He pulled out slowly, leaving Tom feeling gaping and empty and he whined regretfully. “Have I hurt you, my darling?”

Tom shook his head, still feeling dizzy and giddy. “No. Well yes, but just a little and I liked it.”

John gave him a rogue smile as he pulled the condom off, his lips quirking up on just one side of his mouth. “It would seem you may have a little kinky streak in you.”

“Is that… good?”

“It isn’t good or bad, it just is.” John kissed him, his lips swollen from use and wet against Tom’s mouth. “What are you thinking?”

Tom shifted his hips and his hard cock jabbed into John’s stomach. “That I’d like to have a go. If that’s alright?”

John blinked. “You want to try topping?”

“Yes?” Tom chewed on his bottom lip, suddenly wondering if he’d said something wrong.

There was a pause, and then John did that thing again where his eyes rolled back in his head. “Dear God in Heaven,” he groaned. “I do love a man who asks for precisely what he wants.” He squinted up at the sky, blood orange and rose now, the sun sinking lower and lower. “How long will you need for that spell?”

“Just a few minutes, if Sam followed my instructions to get it ready.” A cool breeze picked up, rustling the drying leaves above them, sending gooseflesh rippling over Tom’s skin.

“Good. Then we have time.” John claimed his mouth in a slow kiss, languid and unhurried, but still burning with an intense heat behind it. 

Tom pushed up on John’s shoulders, rolled him over onto his back. He figured that John probably let him do it; he was stronger than Tom by far. Tom’s hard cock dragged over John’s thigh as he settled himself between his legs like John had done. 

The backpack was rather far away and John stretched for it, dragging it closer to him by the very end of one strap and plunged his hand into a pocket. “Can you reach the lube?” 

Tom could, and did, flipping the cap open.

“Wait. Here.” John thrust a fresh condom into Tom’s hand. “Just get yourself really slick and start slow, I’ll be alright.” He shoved the backpack under his hips while Tom rolled the condom on and applied plenty of lube. 

Tom hesitated, staring down at John. He was an absolute vision laid out in front of him like this, face still flushed as if he’d just run two miles. Hair a complete disaster from his own sweat and Tom’s hands. Legs spread for him.

“You won’t break me, I promise,” John said. His warm smile, ridiculously enough, made Tom blush and his stomach did an odd little flip. But that reassurance was all Tom needed. Slowly he pressed in, pushing through initial the resistance he felt at John’s breathy encouragement.

Inside John was so very warm, and they fit together, absolutely perfect. “Oh. Oh, _John_.” He paused, watching John’s face contort from something like concentration to surrender. 

“Tom, fuck,” John said with a nod. “Move. Please.”

It took a minute to figure out his angle and rhythm, but Tom was a quick study in most things. As luck would have it, fucking John Grey was one of those things. The sight of his cock disappearing into John, over and over again, driving gasps and moans out of the man under him… _Mine_ , he thought, unable to ascribe any particular name to the emotion. Tom dug his fingers into the flesh of John’s thighs, leaving bruises that he could kiss later, when they were out of danger. _Mine_ , he thought again. “Mine,” he said it aloud. He hadn’t really meant to, but he didn’t regret it at all.

“Christ, Tom,” John cried. “Yes, yours.” His hands fisted the blanket, knuckles white.

Tom was beginning to tire but it was too good to stop or even slow down. His body felt taut, ready to snap, an intense pleasure snaking its way around his middle. Then he was coming again, shouting John’s name with a hoarse voice that sounded like it belonged to an animal and not himself. He was emptying himself deep inside John and it didn’t matter that he was wearing a condom, he was _inside John_. Claiming him. “ _Mine_ ,” he repeated.

John gave a breathless chuckle, then shouted in surprised pain, bucking away from Tom.

“What, what is it? Bloody hell, what did I do? I’m sorry!”

“No! I’m alright,” John said, a little too quickly. He rolled to his side, displaying his left hip for both of them to see in the falling twilight. A red welt—no, a burn, Tom realized—in the shape of Tom’s right hand was clearly visible in the low light. “You… _branded_ me.” John flopped back onto the blanket and laughed.

Tom couldn’t help it. He laughed too, the fear and mortification melting away. He collapsed on the blanket next to John, letting him draw him into an embrace. Being held in John’s arms, safe and cared for, felt as good as the sex. A wave of pure exhaustion washed over Tom and he yawned, covering his mouth with one hand.

John let out a sigh that was partially unadulterated bliss and a little regret. “Oh, my dear, precious Tom. I wish we could just lie here and sleep until dawn. But we have a dragon to slay.”

“I know,” Tom said, nuzzling his cheek against John’s chest. It was fortunate that they were both accustomed to functioning on very little sleep. They hadn’t slept at all since the previous afternoon, and when this was all over they’d probably pass out for three days straight. Hopefully in the same bed.

“So, what do you think?” John asked. Tom could hear the smile in his voice without looking up. “Do you feel like a less powerful witch now?”

“No,” Tom answered, a smile pinching his cheeks. “More.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo square: **Burns**

The sun had nearly set by the time Grey and Tom had made it back to Sam and the truck, the autumn twilight swirling with orange and violet. Grey was pleased to see that Sam Winchester was at least tactful enough to not say anything that would make Tom uncomfortable when they returned to the truck. Not that he expected much would greatly bother Tom right now. The young witch did indeed appear more powerful, though there wasn’t anything readily definable that could explain that assessment. Perhaps it was in the way Tom’s gait appeared longer, more confident, though this could have been Grey’s imagination. Perhaps it was the subtle lift to his chin, Tom’s hand casually stuck in the back pocket of Grey’s jeans instead of his own. Perhaps it was the bloody painful handprint burned into Grey’s flesh, evidence that Tom was capable of working magic without ritual or tools to focus his energy. Tom had been just as startled as he was by it, so John knew it had not been intentional.

And he would be lying to himself if he said it didn’t give him a bit of a thrill. He’d only ever let one other man leave a mark on his body before. And then Hector had been killed and John had wept for a week when the hickey faded three days later. Grey swallowed hard, glancing over at young Tom, that icy fear settling in his gut. They were about to summon a dragon. An actual, enormous, flying, very probably fire-breathing dragon. And it was sure to be quite annoyed when they did it. At the lot of them in general for meddling in his affairs. With Tom specifically for yanking his metaphysical chain. _Meddle not in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup,_ Grey mused.

Grey and Sam leaned against the side of the truck, watching Tom work his spell in the grass. He had explained what he was doing as he inspected Sam’s preparations, complimenting his attention to detail.

Grey hadn’t followed everything Byrd had rattled on about, but he gathered that he was constructing a type of supernatural lighthouse using his own pre-drawn virgin blood and the gold coins they had stolen. He’d also said something about Greek and Roman pantheons but Grey realized more than halfway through his explanation that he’d been staring at Tom’s lips and processing nothing that had passed between them. Except the tip of his pink tongue, darting out to moisten said lips.

 _Oh Christ. You’re in trouble now, Grey,_ he told himself. He was thoroughly gone on this young man and there was absolutely no turning back now.

“Has he ever done anything like this before?” Sam asked in a low voice, startling Grey. He’d been focusing on the way Tom moved his lithe body in the circle, the ache in his ass, and the strangely cold burning sensation of the handprint on his hip. “Not summon a dragon, obviously,” Sam went on. “I mean construct a spell from his head on the fly. Seems pretty advanced for such a young witch who hasn’t run in a coven in years.”

Grey pushed his ruminations to one side. Those were the kind of distractions that could get them all killed badly. “Not for something quite so high-stakes as this,” he answered. “But the short answer is yes, he has.”

Sam made a noise like the single huff of a laugh. “Impressive. Kid’s got a lot of raw talent then.”

“You have no idea.” Grey shifted his weight and tried to inconspicuously give the burn on his hip some breathing room under his jeans. He was probably going to have an interesting scar. He’d _definitely_ have an interesting blister. John pushed the pain to the back of his mind. He couldn’t do a damn thing about it until the dragon had been defeated.

Out in the field, Tom was chanting in a language that Grey didn’t understand. It wasn’t Latin, and he couldn’t put his finger on it at all. The cadence rose in a crescendo, and the hairs all stood up along Grey’s arms, the back of his neck. It was like being very close to a live electric wire, the power humming through the air. He kept his eyes glued to Tom, wary. He’d never seen the kid work something this big before, certainly not shooting from the hip like he was. If he’d gotten something wrong, the pantheon he’d tapped into could present as much of a threat as the dragon he was calling.

Tom shouted something that sounded very final and authoritative and the static electric feeling grew almost unbearable. Then all at once it was like standing at the edge of a vacuum. All the air got sucked up from the space around Grey, rushed toward Tom’s circle of power, and then exploded in an invisible whoosh of heated air. There was a sound like a clap of thunder, Grey’s ears popped under the pressure change, and he flinched.

When he opened his eyes again—they’d only been closed for a fraction of a second—a colossal gold and red beam of light shot into the sky like a beacon, as high as John could see, emanating from the iron cauldron that Tom had mixed his ingredients in. Tom collapsed in the grass, still sitting up, but shoulders slumped and heaving, head hung low.

Fear gripped Grey’s heart but propelled him to action. He ran to Tom’s side and sank to his knees next to him, hands checking all the vulnerable places—heart, throat, eyes, abdomen, back of the neck, skull. From the weird light of the beacon he could see that Tom was pale, his body trembling, the large muscle groups in his arms and legs twitching under Grey’s frantic hands as if electrified. Not knowing what else to do, John rubbed his hands briskly over those areas, hoping to relax the nerves there.

“What happened? Tom, are you hurt? Can you hear me?” He took Tom’s face in both of his hands and looked into his eyes, clouded with fatigue, but focusing. A thin trickle of blood rolled slowly from one nostril and Grey swiped this away with his bare thumb. “Can you speak?”

Tom gave an exhausted chuckle, his eyes blinking a little too fast but everything else about him was drowsy and slow. When he answered, his words were slurred, like they had been after that vampire job had gone badly and they’d drank themselves into a complete stupor. “Only if you take a breath, mate. I can’t get a word in edgewise.”

Apparently, Grey had been holding his breath, because he let it all out in a rush and pulled Tom into a tight embrace, crushing him close. “Thank God. You scared the hell out of me. Are you alright?”

“I think so. Except I can’t breathe, can you ease up a bit?”

“Sorry,” John loosened his grip and pushed Tom away so he could look him over again. “Do you think you can walk back to the truck?”

Tom gave it some thought before nodding weakly. “I think so.” He tried to push himself up but slumped again and shook his head. “If you can help me up I think I’ll be fine.”

John squatted behind Tom, got his arms around him, and hauled them both to their feet. He wrapped one arm tight around Tom's middle, and Tom held onto his shoulders, leaning heavily against him but mostly under his own steam. Sam met them halfway and took Tom’s other side. Once back at the truck, Grey helped Tom to perch on the tailgate, lifting him off the and setting him onto it.

Laughing weakly, Tom said, "When this is over, you'll have to throw me around properly."

“Anything you like, Tom,” Grey said, smiling. If he was joking, he was fine. John had only seen Tom so hurt that he couldn’t speak his mind a couple of times. The first had been the night that they’d met and Grey had slaughtered his coven. The other was when a vengeful spirit had broken through his salt circle and possessed him. He’d barely spoken for days after that. Tom was often reserved around people he didn’t know well, but never with John.

Grey kissed Tom on the mouth. Yes, if he was flirting, he would be just fine. “Looks like you get to man the RPG then,” he said, dragging the case over and flipping it open. “Show me that you remember how to load and fire it and I promise to carry you to a real bed when this is over.”

* * *

Jamie Fraser wasn't surprised to discover that Dean Winchester drove his classic muscle car with a general disdain for traffic laws. He tore down the two lane black top like a bat out of hell heedless of the posted speed limit, cut across double yellow lines, and only paused at stop signs when the intersection wasn't clear.

Jamie braced the wrapped bundle holding the sword of St. George against his shoulder. Much larger than his own Scottish _claidheamh-mòr_ with a basket hilt, the sword of St. George was one of those massive, cross-hilted behemoths that took two hands to wield. The weapon would likely stand nearly as tall as John if he rested the tip in the earth. Dean had suggested that it would fit in the backseat if they angled it right, but Jamie had insisted on holding it. It was something of a holy relic afterall. So it was slid as far under the dash as it would go, leaning to one side over Jamie’s shoulder, resting between his knees

"Any change?" Dean asked. He meant for Jamie to check the app on his phone to see if Sam had moved.

Jamie swiped his finger over the screen and shook his head. “Nay. They’re still there. At least Sam’s mobile is.”

Dean’s hands were wrapped tight around the steering wheel, but not so stiff that his knuckles were white. Jamie understood the concern. Dark had fallen and they were still an hour away from their companions. Sam had texted Dean earlier to let them know that wee Byrd had worked out a way to summon the dragon when it was no longer tracking Tom like a homing beacon.

The phone buzzed in Jamie’s hand, and Sam’s name popped up. Jamie tapped the message and read it. “Sam says the beacon is lit. Took a lot out of Byrd but he’s alright.” Jamie checked the navigation app on his own phone. He glanced surreptitiously over at the speedometer. “I dinna mean to rush ye, Dean, but…”

The engine roared as Dean accelerated to pass a sedan, who laid on the horn. “Yeah, I know. Until we get there with the holy cavalry, their best defense is out of commission.”

Jamie reached across the narrow distance of the bench seat to give Dean’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It’s alright, we’ll make it in time. Father Carpenter is praying for our victory.”

Dean scoffed. “I happen to know for a personal fact that God isn’t listening.”

“Aye weel. It’s no’ about that, is it?”

* * *

“Hey, ah, Tom?” Sam asked, nodding toward the spell beacon. “Is it supposed to do that?”

Tom looked up from the RPG he’d just finished loading for the third time. The spire of magic light had turned red, the gold completely swallowed by the crimson beam. “I worked a kind of alarm system into it. So yes. It means the dragon is alm—”

A horrific screech cut him off, something cacophonous and primeval. Absolute power made vocal. The dragon had found them.

Sam looked toward the dark road and then at his wristwatch, shaking his head. “Guess we’ll have to keep it busy until they get here with the sword.”

Tom took a deep, steadying breath and shouldered the RPG, aiming toward the dragon’s cry. He could hear the creature’s wings, beating at the air. That sound was as chilling as the screech. It heralded something huge and unnatural, something so far above mankind on the food chain that it didn’t even factor into rational fear.

The dragon howled again, near enough to rattle Tom’s breastbone and send panic skittering down his spine. Something in the lower regions of his brain screamed, demanded that he flee, that he hide from the monster that was coming to eat him. Just like John had taught him, though, he took even breaths, thanked his pounding heart for sharpening his senses, and prepared to fire the RPG.

The tops of the trees due west were engulfed with a sudden column of flame, lighting up the night sky with a flash. The dragon, enormous and in dark silhouette against the light, burst through its own blaze, belching fire onto the remnants of Tom’s spell.

John shouted at him to fire the RPG, and Tom squeezed the trigger.

* * *

Even if they hadn’t been following the GPS signal from Sam’s phone, there was no way in hell they could have missed their precise location. Because it was on fire. The sky glowed amber with the distant blaze and Dean shoved the gas pedal as far down as he dared. He and Jamie both swore—though Jamie did so in Gaelic—as they raced toward the fire.

Jamie unwrapped the sword and tossed the cloth into the backseat. From the corner of his eye Dean saw him run his fingers up and down the blade, muttering in Latin. He recognized the words as a prayer to Michael and Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Now wasn’t the time to go poking holes in the man’s faith. Besides, Dean had seen Jamie fight. The original avenging archangel—who was a gigantic douchebag anyway—had nothing on this terror of a man who wore a freaking kilt into battle and didn’t let a little nuisance like his own mortality get in his way.

“There,” Jamie said with a sudden crispness. “Fifteen yards ahead, to the right.”

“I see it,” Dean answered, slowing the impala down just enough to make the hard turn through a break in the trees. Branches whipped against the paint job and Dean winced but kept going. Jamie took hold of the St George sword by the hilt, preparing to dive from the car and take it with him. “Hold onto something.”

The dragon had landed in the middle of a clearing and was breathing fire in a wide arc around itself, Sam and John both diving out of the way while the kid fired a grenade at it from the bed of Jamie’s truck. The grenade exploded against the thing’s chest and it screeched. Jamie braced his right hand against the dash and Dean floored it, angling the impala directly at the dragon. He gritted his teeth and tensed his own arms, preparing for the impact. “Sorry, Baby,” he said to the car.

Hitting the dragon’s leg head-on was like driving directly into a sturdy tree. Dean and Jamie were both thrown forward by their momentum. Glass shattered in a violent hail. The impala’s engine sputtered and died.

They threw open the doors and dove from the vehicle, Jamie letting out a berserk, Highland scream that drew the dragon’s attention. “Do ye recognize this, _mhac na galla?_ ” Jamie held the sword in both hands, the long end of his kilt billowing behind him. It was probably Dean’s imagination, but he got the distinct sense that Jamie wasn’t alone with the weapon.

The dragon let out a shriek, its wings spread wide, attention fixed on Jamie.

“How many of yer brethren did it slay? Dozens?” In a dizzying display of testicular fortitude, Jamie was _taunting_ the thing, making it angry. “Bring yer pretty face to my blade, aye?”

A quick glance around showed Dean that Sam was okay. He had his angel blade at the ready, but ran toward the truck. John had taken a defensive stance with a shotgun in front of the kid, who was reloading the RPG.

Jamie let out another of those Highland shrieks, the dragon answering it with one of its own. Tom fired the RPG, struck the dragon in the face—nice fucking shot—and Jamie charged it, sword angled high for the dragon’s belly. The beast howled in rage and pain, a blazing orange gash opening up where Jamie had swiped it. The dragon responded by spewing fire after Jamie, but he’d made it to the other side of the thing’s legs. The flames splashed harmlessly off of its own hide, missing Jamie by inches.

Dean sprinted to the truck, meeting Sam there. “Good timing,” Sam said, throwing open the case to their own grenade launcher.

“Yeah, well. If we’d been here faster, Baby’d still have a front end. Here, gimme that.” Dean took the angel blade from Sam, who had loaded the grenade launcher.

Sam hefted the thing up to his shoulder and shook the hair away from his eyes. “I’ll draw it’s fire, you give Jamie back up.”

Dean nodded and glanced at Tom. He’d put the RPG down, probably out of ammo, and was doing… well something that involved a lot of muttering and probably the bleeding cut on his hand. Whatever it was, he didn’t notice Dean. With only a quick glance to see that Sam was making his way wide of the dragon to come up behind it, Dean raced toward Jamie.

Jamie was still shouting obscenities at the dragon, taking the broadsword equivalent of potshots whenever he scored an opening. The beast’s lower extremities were sporting several gashes as a result. Dean leapt over a puddle of dragon blood to avoid slipping. “On your right, Connery!”

“Dinna get yersel’ killed wi’ that pig sticker.” Jamie spun away from Dean and brought the sword around to slash at the Dragon’s flank. They both dropped into a crouch to avoid the thing’s swinging tail.

Dean managed to jab his blade between a couple scales on the dragon's tail and it let out an annoyed screech. The tip of the tail caught him in the back, knocking the air out of him and sending him sprawling to the smoldering grass. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Sam shouting. Then an enormous, sweaty body covered him—Jamie, he realized. Then a boom and Jamie hissed in pain, swearing under his breath.

"Ye alright?" Jamie asked, climbing off of Dean and offering a hand to drag him back to his feet.

Dean managed to suck in a breath and it tasted like dirt and ash. He coughed, nodding. "Yeah," he sputtered. "Thanks."

Jamie lifted his blade high and charged the dragon while it was focused on Sam. John fired his shotgun at it, providing cover while Sam reloaded.

The sword of St George was able to penetrate the dragon’s belly. But the dragon reared back, wrenching the hilt from Jamie's big mitts. Dean saw what was coming, saw disaster poised to fall directly onto this whole stupid plan. If Jamie saw it too, he was too stubborn to care.

Dean tightened his grip on his angel blade and ran headlong into the fray. The dragon swatted Jamie to the side with the back of one clawed hand and reared up. Its throat glowed white hot and it opened its mouth wide. Dean landed on Jamie and rolled them both away. The dragon's fire was hot on his face and hands, the grass where Jamie had just been a mere moment before engulfed in flame.

The next heartbeats were a haze of sounds and flashes.. The dragon howled. The whoosh and crash of the grenade launcher. The steady boom-click-clack-boom-click-clack of a .12 gauge.

But it was John's voice yelling to Tom that drew Dean's attention to the detail he'd missed. The kid had left the bed of the truck and crossed the burning field toward the sword that had fallen out of the dragon's gut.

There was no way in hell the kid would be able to lift it. But they were fast running out of alternatives.

"Hey! Ugly!" Dean yelled. The dragon rounded on him and screeched. "Come on! Can't you roast a couple tired old hunters?" If they could just buy Tom some time to get the sword back to Jamie…

But Jamie wasn't watching Tom at all. He was shouting something in French that sounded rude. Maybe the cultured version of _missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me._

John and Sam had discarded their heavier firepower, both spent. John was separating from Sam, looking most sneaky-like.

Dean had never been so delighted to be wrong about something in his life. Tom had not only picked up the sword, but held it in his left hand. He shouted an invocation in—was that old Swedish? Something Scandinavian anyway. A thin bolt of lightning struck a tree. It fell, landing on the dragon's back in a dizzying betrayal of probability. It howled in surprised rage and struggled under the weight, molten blood oozing from the gash Jamie had made in its belly.

Tom scrambled up onto the fallen tree and started to climb. Dean turned to look at Jamie, but he'd moved off and had his arms wrapped around John, keeping him from going after Tom.

What the kid needed was time. Not much time. But more than he had.

Dean still had his angel blade. "You big, dumb, scaly son of a bitch, look at me!" he shouted, running to one side. He felt the flames at his back and turned back around as the initial hot blast faded. Tom was almost to the thing's back. Dean's distraction had goaded the creature into stretching out its neck, jaws snapping toward Dean.

It never got the chance.

Tom had made it onto the dragon, standing precariously on its shoulders. He lifted the hilt of the sword as high as he could, blade pointed down, and drove it directly into the back of the dragon’s neck. Straining, he leaned into the plunge with all his might, shoving the sword clean through to the cross.

The dragon shrieked, a horrific, deafening sort of death cry, and thrashed. Tom was flung off its back to the ground. John broke free from Jamie's grip and ran to where Tom had landed.

Flame and blood poured from the dragon's pierced neck. It wobbled like a drunk, and at last collapsed into a massive heap. Smoke bellowed from its nostrils in a final exhale, and then it was still. Dead. Slain. Defeated.

"Way to go, kid," Dean muttered. _Oh shit, the kid_. He jogged around the oozing bulk of the dragon, eying it suspiciously lest it suddenly reanimate.

By the time Dean had made it to the other side of the dragon carcass—how the fuck were they going to dispose of _that_ —John had scooped up Tom and was carrying him toward the truck.

"Is he…" Sam asked, appearing at Dean's side. Everyone looked grim and a ball of panic knotted in Dean’s gut. The kid wasn’t moving.

John shook his head. "He's alive."

* * *

Grey’s heart had stopped when the dragon had thrown Tom. It hadn’t started back up again until he’d found Tom’s pulse, a little erratic but strong. Jamie had tried to carry him but John had waved him off. For one, Jamie was exhausted and his trembling arms sported severe-looking burns. Secondly, he couldn't stand the thought of not holding Tom while he was vulnerable.

His precious Tom came round long enough to ask them to save some of the dragon’s scales and claws. “And some blood. If there’s something to put it in.” And then he passed out again, his slender body going slack in Grey’s arms.

Sam helped John to stretch Tom out on the backseat of Jamie’s truck and handed him a first aid kit from the impala’s trunk. With a sad smile and a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, Winchester left them alone to help solve the problem of the dragon carcass.

Tom had a cut on his left hand that looked intentional and probably had something to do with the frigging lightning he’d summoned. His right hand was scorched, the skin blistering in places already. Grey wasn’t sure how that had happened. Might have been the dragon, might have been the lightning. Might have been the enormous amount of power he’d wielded. Grey cleaned up what he could of Tom from the supplies in the first aid kit, applying the appropriate salves and bandages as necessary.

Once he was patched up, Grey smoothed the wild mop of dark hair back from Tom’s face and pressed his lips to the young man’s forehead. His skin was clammy.

Dean and Jamie hooked up the impala to the hitch on the back of Jamie’s truck and towed the thing to the nearest motel. Tom came to again, this time blinking his eyes open while they bounced down the rough country road. “Did you get my dragon claws?”

Everyone exchanged warm smiles. “Yeah, kid,” Dean said. “We got you all the scales we could carry. And claws. And there’s about a hundred and twenty ounces of blood in empty water bottles in the back too.”

Tom grinned weakly, deliriously, and slumped into Grey’s embrace again. When they parked at the motel, Grey handed Jamie the meager wad of cash from his wallet to cover the price of a room.

Tom stirred again when the doors of the truck slammed shut. “Where are we?” he asked, voice little more than a groan with syllables.

“Kansas,” Grey answered with a chuckle. “I haven’t a clue what town, but I think we’re near the Missouri border still.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Tom yawned, not bothering to cover it. It was infectious and John’s jaw popped. “We’re together and that’s what counts, right?”

“Right you are.” The others were walking back toward the truck and Jamie gave Grey a beckoning sort of nod. “Think you can stand?” John hopped down from the oversized vehicle and retrieved his duffle bag, holding out his right hand to help Tom climb out.

“Doubtful. But I’ll try.” Tom accepted the assistance and slid gingerly from the pickup, bracing himself against Grey.

They made it as far as the door before Tom stumbled, Grey’s arm around his middle the only thing that kept him from falling on his face. Jamie swooped in, took John’s bag and room key from him and unlocked the door. Grey scooped his other arm under Tom’s knees and hefted him up into his arms, carrying him inside.

Tom chuckled, the sound muffled with his face buried into Grey’s chest. “You do keep every last one of your promises, don’t you, mate?”

Grey laid him down on the bed and nodded his thanks to Jamie, who slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Once they were alone, he gently started pulling off Tom’s shoes, jeans, shirt. It felt good to have his hands on Tom, feeling the warmth and life in his body. Grey pulled the bedclothes back and helped him settle in.

“Is it too early in our relationship for me to say, ‘Not tonight, honey, I’m tired?’” Tom asked. His sleepy eyes were glued to John, watching him undress. They hadn’t bothered to turn on any lamps, and their only source of light came from the dim streetlights filtering through the curtains and the illuminated clock on the nightstand, flashing midnight.

As exciting as it was that Tom was staring so openly, clearly enjoying what he saw, Grey could not recall ever being so exhausted in his life. Still, he smiled. “My dear dragon slayer, if you _weren’t_ too tired for sex after that ordeal, I’d be seriously concerned.”

Tom grinned and snuggled close to Grey as he slid into the bed next to him. Wrapping his arms around John’s waist, he nuzzled his head against his chest. His right hand drifted to the brand he’d left on Grey’s hip. John shivered, Tom’s touch there soothing rather than painful.

“That’s right, I _did_ slay the dragon. I should be knighted. From now on, you can call me Sir Tom. Just in bed though. Let’s not make it weird.”

Grey laughed, so relieved he could cry. Tom was flirting. He would be alright. “Yes, heaven forbid we do anything odd.” He tilted Tom’s face up with a finger under his chin. His lips tasted like coppery blood, ozone, and smoke.

Tom let out a pleased, drowsy hum as they eventually broke apart. “You taste like a hunt.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it. Good night, Sir Tom.”


End file.
